


pulling rank

by simplyclockwork



Series: oh captain, my captain [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Captain John Watson, Catchin' feels, Chair Sex, Deepthroating, Destruction of expensive silk shirts, Emotional Porn, John Watson in Army Gear, John orders Sherlock around and Sherlock likes it very very much, Johnlock - Freeform, Lap Sex, M/M, Military Kink, Military Roleplay, Mouth Fucking, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Porn with Feelings, Roleplay, Sex, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Smut, Soldier John Watson, Uniform Fetish, light bondage?, very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26626720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Captain John Watson's guide to catchin' feels and ruining expensive silk shirts with flair.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: oh captain, my captain [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740022
Comments: 41
Kudos: 145





	pulling rank

**Author's Note:**

> Hoooooo boy, heads up for some porn with feels. This ended up being much longer than I had anticipated. Also, this series has a cover, now.

John leaves Sherlock dozing on the couch, practically a melted version of himself after their nearly back-to-back morning exercises. He pauses to tidy his hair and clean Sherlock’s cum off his stomach before dressing in his uniform and clomping back into the sitting room. He pauses to glance at Sherlock, draped over the couch with his robe rucked up to his knees, licks his lips, and darts down the stairs and outside before the sight can keep him from leaving. 

He tries not to imagine how it’ll feel tomorrow when he ships back to Afghanistan and has to leave Sherlock behind. Four days is far from enough time together, but it’s enough for John to realize he is hopelessly head-over-heels for the quirky man who blew him in Regent’s Park seconds after they met. 

Straightening his shoulders, John strides down the sidewalk toward the tube. Those people paying attention move out of his path, some throwing him respectful nods, others scowling. John’s used to it. Not everyone supports the military, and he understands. For him, it’s part of who he is, though he doesn’t relish the act of taking lives. John hopes that his medical work provides some kind of balance to the scales in his less certain moments.

But he tries not to linger on such thoughts. John chose his path years ago, and it is too late to pull back now. Though, as his mind shifts back to Sherlock, he finds himself regretting deployment for the first time. 

Shaking his head, John trots down the stairs to the Tube Station, turning his focus toward his meeting. 

______________

On his way back to Baker Street, John feels jittery. Pent-up energy thrums through his body, and the crowded train only serves to remind him that he hadn’t cum after watching Sherlock blast through what looked like a truly spectacular orgasm. Just thinking about it has John half-hard in his fatigues, and he represses a shudder, picking up the pace once he’s off the train, speed-walking around slower people, resisting the urge to break into a full-out sprint.

By the time he reaches the familiar black door, it takes all of John’s self-restraint not to slam inside and thunder up the stairs. As it is, he takes them two at a time, heavy boots loud on the steps. It must sound like an ambush, and he’s not surprised when he enters the sitting room and finds Sherlock standing up from his chair with a wary expression. 

At the sight of John, his face goes slack, pale eyes widening. He’s holding his phone in one hand and a book in the other, and they both clatter to the floor at John’s entrance. John winces at the sound of the phone bouncing off the rug, but Sherlock seems oblivious, stunned, his dark lashes fluttering in a series of rapid blinks. Idly, John wonders if the force of his blinking is strong enough to create a small breeze, and he tilts his head, looking Sherlock over. 

His posture is stiff and upright, spine straightening further as John studies him. It looks instinctive the way Sherlock suddenly stands at attention, his feet sliding together even as he continues to blink. When John’s gaze reaches his face, Sherlock’s eyelashes stop fluttering, and he simply stares, open mouth snapping shut with a loud click. 

An idea dawns on John, and the corner of his mouth curls upward. Shifting his weight on his feet, parted shoulder-length apart, he folds his hands carefully behind his back, tilts his chin up, and speaks in a firm, authoritative voice.

“Hello, soldier.” 

Sherlock’s eyes immediately widen, and a flush rushes up his neck, into his face. It is a startlingly strong reaction, and John’s smirk grows before he can force his mouth into a hard line. 

Oh, if he’d known Sherlock’s military kink went so deep… well, he would have donned the uniform days ago. As it is, John is almost shocked that he didn’t think of it before. No matter, he will use it to his full advantage now.

John lifts an arm and crooks a finger in a come-hither gesture. “Approach, Private Holmes.”

As if he is a wind-up toy suddenly coming to life, Sherlock rushes forward. His march is clumsy, turned sloppy by the obvious and very stiff erection tenting the front of his trousers. He evidently dressed while John was out, and John admires the tight lines of his bespoke clothing. They’re not quite as revealing as the silk robe, but there is little in the way of extra fabric, and no chance for Sherlock to hide his arousal. His suit jacket hangs open, revealing a tight, deep burgundy shirt, the buttons straining. How Sherlock dresses like that and still manages to breathe, John has no idea. 

All he knows is he can’t wait to see every one of those buttons opened and Sherlock on his knees. And, peeking above the collar of the tight shirt, are the bruises John pressed into Sherlock’s skin, just that morning. He eyes them, tongue flicking out to trace his bottom lip as he admires his work. Sherlock breathes a needy little sigh, and John looks up in time to catch him following the path of John’s tongue with his eyes. The simple response makes John throb and ache, his cock straining at the rough fabric of his fatigues through his pants. It is a potent reminder that he still needs release and has been sporting a half-erection since he licked every salty line of semen off Sherlock’s heaving stomach. 

He can still taste him on his tongue if he thinks hard enough, and John’s mouth fills with drool.

Sherlock is two feet away before John brings himself back to the moment, barking, “Halt.” Sherlock nearly stumbles over his own feet in his haste to comply, huffing a startled breath before catching his balance. John’s lips twitch, and he forces himself to appear sombre. He narrows his eyes slightly, just enough to communicate a facade of severe disappointment. “Posture, Holmes,” he snaps, and Sherlock’s spine snaps into a perfectly straight line. 

“Sir,” he gusts, eyes wide and huge in his face, his pupils two twin, black pools. John can barely make out the silvery-blue of his irises, and the vision is glorious. Sherlock is stunning, his hands stiff at his sides, body vibrating with eager energy that he is clearly struggling to keep under control. John breathes heavily through his nose, trying to take the edge off his burning arousal. He’d love to wrap his hand around his cock and squeeze, just enough to soothe the aching stiffness of his erection, but he resists the urge. John isn’t play-acting. He is an actual army captain. If he can hold his calm with bullets ripping through the air, explosions throwing sand in his face, he can bloody well handle _his own damn cock._

Shoulders rigid, John steps forward. Sherlock watches him approach with eyes that seem to have taken over his face, his lashes twitching with the urge to blink. He doesn’t, just stares at John with his pupils blown wide, holding his rigid posture. Only his breath gives him away, too-fast and a little loud, the flush suffusing his pale skin lingering in his ears, cheeks, and the hollows of his bruise-marked neck. 

John walks around Sherlock, studying his stance, smoothing out small wrinkles in his suit, settling the jacket’s shoulders. Sherlock quivers with each touch, breath catching, and John clenches his jaw to keep himself from pouncing. He plans to draw this out, to bring Sherlock far from the poised, controlled man he seems to be around everyone but John.

He wants to break him down and put him back together. Change something within him, something fundamental and intrinsic, so Sherlock will never be the same. There’s no malice in the desire, just the need to try and make Sherlock remember him. John knows he’ll never forget the man standing unmoving before him, and he doesn’t want Sherlock to forget him. 

He stops behind Sherlock. Stands and looks, and snaps, “Don’t,” when Sherlock moves to look over his shoulder. Sherlock goes still and faces forward again, licking his lips quickly. John breathes another heavy exhale, hands clenching and unclenching, allowing himself a moment of loosening before he rolls his neck, pushes his shoulders back, and falls back into the familiar role. 

“Take off your jacket.” 

Sherlock rushes to follow the order, slipping his arms out of the jacket so quickly, he nearly tears the fabric. 

“Easy, soldier,” John growls, and Sherlock slows, his hands shaking as he grips the jacket before him. “Fold it. Neatly,” John adds, and Sherlock folds the expensive fabric carefully over his arm. “Set it there, on the chair.” Sherlock hesitates, glancing at him, and John nods, granting permission for him to move. He does, crossing to the red armchair and draping the folded jacket over the back. He pauses and turns toward John again, expectant. 

The sight of him, obedient and anticipatory, makes John clench his teeth together and swallow down a moan. Breathing slowly, he turns to lock the door. Posture rigid, he crosses the room, stops by the desk between the windows, and turns to Sherlock.

“Come here,” John says, pointing at a point on the rug a few feet from where he stands. Sherlock moves toward him with a measured pace, clearly struggling not to rush. He stops where John indicates, standing straight once more, awaiting the next order. His dark eyes flit over John’s face, lips parting around a shaky sigh. 

John moves toward him, his heavy boots loud even through the thick carpet underfoot. He stops inches from Sherlock, catching him by the arm when Sherlock instinctively sways toward him. “Stand straight, solider.” He narrows his eyes, expression stern. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

“Yessir,” Sherlock breathes, and John tilts his head. 

“What was that?” He cups a hand to his ear, brows rising. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“Yessir, Captain Watson,” Sherlock says, louder this time, his voice shaking with glaring need. His cock twitches in his pants, the subtle movement emphasized by the tight trousers. 

John lets his eyes drop to the front of Sherlock’s trousers. “Those look pretty tight, soldier.” Reaching out, he hooks two fingers in the waistband, working past the snug fit. Sherlock’s skin burns, warm enough for John to feel it through his shirt. “Are you comfortable?”

“No, sir,” Sherlock replies. When John looks up, Sherlock’s eyes flicker and dart over his shoulder. John tamps down the urge to grin and looks down again. 

“Maybe you should loosen them. Or take them off?” he muses in an inquisitive voice. “Bet you’d like to take them off, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock shivers. The ripple travels through his body from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. 

“Yessir,” he whispers, then louder, “Yes, Captain.” 

“Which is it, Holmes?” 

Sherlock’s throat bobs with his loud swallow, a soft gasp escaping his lips when they part. “Yessir. I’d like to take them off, sir.”

Head shaking, John tugs on the waist of Sherlock’s trousers, a small smile creeping over his face as Sherlock struggles to hold his position. “Take _what_ off? Be specific, soldier.” 

“My trousers,” Sherlock whispers, his voice breaking halfway through the second word. John allows himself a little sound, barely a growl, and nearly loses his control when Sherlock’s eyelids flutter, a quiet groan catching in his throat. 

“Maybe later,” John says, slipping his fingers free. Sherlock begins to sag before catching himself and straightening again. John turns away and circles him anew, eyeing the tight lines of his shoulders. “None of what you’re wearing is military-issue, Private.” His tone lowers, and Sherlock shivers in response. “Do you think you’re special, soldier? That you can wear whatever you like?” Revolving back around to Sherlock’s front, John spins on his heel and narrows his eyes. “Not in _my_ regiment, Private.” Head jerking up as his jaw works around fake anger, John snaps, “Take off your shirt. _Now.”_

Sherlock hurries to comply, his fingers clumsily fumbling at the top button of his dress shirt. His hands shake hard enough that he struggles, and John quirks a brow.

“Do you need help, soldier?” 

Sherlock freezes, raising his eyes from his hands to John’s face. He looks uncertain, tongue darting out over his lips. John resists the urge to groan at the brief flash of pink and decides he wants that wet little miracle on his cock. His erection pulses at the thought, and John schools his expression into a steely glare. 

“Well? Do you?”

Uncertain, Sherlock blinks and swallows before answering. “I… I don’t know, sir?”

“Oh, you don’t, do you?” Striding forward, John walks right into Sherlock’s space until they are toe to toe, and he can feel Sherlock’s accelerated breathing against his chest. He leans up, their heights a little better matched with the thickness of his combat boots, and whispers, “If you don’t get that shirt off _right now_ , I will leave you standing here. Alone. For however long it takes for me to believe you’ve regained your wits.” Tilting back, John watches colour rush into Sherlock’s face, his eyes nearly black. “Do you understand, Private Holmes?”

 _“Yes,”_ Sherlock wheezes, the word rushing out in a loud exhale. “Yessir, I understand, sir,” he adds when John’s eyes narrow. 

“Good,” John replies, stepping away. “Go on, then.” He folds his hands behind his back, his expression expectant. 

Again, Sherlock turns his hands toward his buttons, but this time he manages to get his eagerness under control. Breathing in audible, measured exhales, he rucks his shirt out of his tight trousers and flicks each button open until only the bottom remains. 

“Stop,” John orders, and Sherlock’s hands go still, his head lifting with a questioning expression. It smoothes away when John shoots him a stern look, and Sherlock drops his hands, drawing up stiffly as John approaches. 

He fiddles with the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt before dragging his fingers slowly downward. His fingertips barely brush Sherlock’s skin, just the ghost of contact, inspiring goosebumps on his way to the final button. Sherlock’s chest lifts beneath the teasing touch, his shoulders shaking as if resisting the urge to press forward into John’s hand. 

“Good lad,” John breathes, smirking when Sherlock gasps and bites hard into his bottom lip, twin spots of red rising in his cheeks. His cock jumps as well, and John drops his eyes at the movement, his fingers lowering to the top of Sherlock’s trousers again. He hears Sherlock’s hissing inhale, the tight sound of air catching in his throat, and lifts his gaze to meet Sherlock’s dark stare. Holding it, John wipes his face of any expression and flicks his fingernails against the button holding Sherlock’s trousers closed. 

A groan rasps out of Sherlock’s parted lips, and John forces himself to remain stoic. Offering all the expressiveness of a statue, he does it again, watching Sherlock strain to hold still. The tendons stand out in his neck, and John’s eyes wander over the tempting display before returning to Sherlock’s face. 

John walks his index and middle fingers up from Sherlock’s fly to the last button on his shirt at an almost glacial pace. He does it with deliberate pressure, fingertips pushing into skin through expensive material, and a shaky whimper punctuates Sherlock’s exhales. John stops, and Sherlock clamps his lips into a hard line. Only once he is silent, breathing loudly through his nose, does John continue. 

When he reaches the button, he strokes two fingers over the hard object, then higher, dusting casually over Sherlock’s stomach. The skin quivers beneath his touch, muscles flexing underneath, and Sherlock breathes a desperate, shuddering sigh.

“Captain—” he begins, falling quiet at the slight narrowing of John’s eyes. _God, he’s so responsive_. It drives him wild, and John pauses to wait for his twitching cock to calm. He closes his eyes and rolls his neck on his shoulders, trying not to let his world narrow to the soft flesh beneath his fingers. 

Once he regains control and opens his eyes, he finds Sherlock staring at him with a rapt expression. John purses his lips. “Eyes front, soldier.” 

Sherlock’s eyes dart away, looking over John’s shoulder, teeth digging hard into his bottom lip. Biting back a smile, John slips the button from its hole with two fingers, letting the shirt fall open. He lays his hand on Sherlock’s sternum, a quick shudder working through his body at the sound of Sherlock’s ragged breathing. He must be aching, trapped in his trousers, but Sherlock holds himself still, straining to follow John’s orders. 

Without speaking, John slips his hand upward, stroking over the smooth planes of Sherlock’s chest, the taut, lithe muscles of his abdomen rippling under his fingers. He grazes a thumb over one pink, dusky nipple, and Sherlock’s eyes flicker closed. His teeth press hard enough into his bottom lip to turn the flesh white, and John can’t help but lean forward and flick his tongue against the edge of Sherlock’s jaw. The wet touch makes Sherlock jump, and his face flushes a beautiful dark red, lips popping open in surprise. 

Still silent, John traces Sherlock’s bottom lip with his thumb, dropping his eyes as he begins slipping a sleeve off Sherlock’s shoulder with his free hand. The silk flutters beneath his touch, a sleek contrast to the hot puff of Sherlock’s breath against his thumb. John circles Sherlock’s mouth once, twice before pressing with firm pressure into the centre of his bottom lip. Sherlock opens his mouth at the silent order as John tugs the other sleeve down, letting the shirt dangle from Sherlock’s wrists by the closed cuffs. Reaching around, John gathers Sherlock’s caught hands and pulls them behind him, wrapping the shirt around his fist to draw the makeshift restraint tight. 

If Sherlock is bothered by the likely damaging wrinkling of his shirt, he doesn’t show it, keeping his eyes closed as John tugs his lower lip down toward his chin.

“Quite the shape you’re in, solider,” John hums, his voice low, husky, bordering on rough. Sherlock’s brows push together and up, his sigh a shaky little thing that makes John growl deep in his throat. “I think I could spend hours touching you, just like this, just moving my fingers over your skin until it drives you mad.” Leaning closer, John licks his lips, husking, “In fact, I just might.” Sherlock shivers, the delicate movement tempting John’s thumb past his lips and into his welcoming mouth. “Would you like that?”

Sherlock nods, tongue touching tentatively along the edge of John’s thumb. A fervent grin spreading over his face, John presses down with the pad of his thumb, huffing a quiet groan. 

“Why don’t you suck it?” he suggests, leaning up to flick his tongue over Sherlock’s ear, whispering, “Pretend it’s my cock, Private. Show me what you can do, and maybe I’ll let you suck me off.” 

The shiver that works its way through Sherlock’s body this time is nearly a spasm, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. With immediate obedience, he hollows his cheeks and sucks forcefully on John’s thumb, like it’s a matter of life or death. John’s smile widens, wavers, and shapes around a loud moan he can’t hope to contain. 

“Mmm, yes, Holmes. That’s good, _very good.”_ He groans again, catching Sherlock’s earlobe in his teeth and tugging with a growl. “Let me feel that tongue of yours. Convince me to fuck your mouth.” 

Sherlock’s answering whine vibrates up from his throat, over John’s thumb, and he replaces it with two fingers, Sherlock eagerly curling his tongue around his knuckles. John adds a third finger, marvelling at the vision before him. With his lips stretched wide by John’s fingers, saliva dripping down his chin, face still flushed and red, Sherlock is a marvellous sight to behold. Hard enough that it’s beginning to hurt, John reaches down and adjusts himself in his fatigues, squeezing tightly once, twice, just to take the edge off. 

With the haze of arousal briefly receding, John strokes his fingers over Sherlock’s moving tongue and rubs spit over his pouty lips before dropping his hand back to his side. Sherlock’s eyes pop open then fall to half-mast, long lashes casting shadows over his dilated pupils. His arms are still caught behind him, the shirt wrapped tight around John’s fist, and his heaving chest is slick with sweat. Sherlock looks desperate already, standing with his cock straining against his trouser front, his lips pinkened and wet from John’s attention. 

The shirt gripped tightly, John shifts and presses the fabric into Sherlock’s hands. “Hold,” he orders, waiting until Sherlock’s fingers sink against the silk before extracting his fist. “You are not to let go,” he says, staring hard into Sherlock’s flushed face. “Do you understand?”

Sherlock nods, quickly gasping, “Yessir, Captain Watson,” in a breathless rush. John’s lips quirk as he steps back. 

“Good boy.” The words land, Sherlock’s pupils contracting and dilating in response, goosebumps rippling over his skin. His sexual reaction to praise is nearly as strong as his military kink, and John’s mind is already whirling with ideas and plans for their next bout. He pushes them away, for now, refocusing on the present as he eyes Sherlock, plotting his next move. Inspiration strikes and John tugs a chair out from under the desk. 

Sherlock watches with evident interest as John spins it around and drops down. He pushes his legs out, soles of his boots falling heavily against the floor as John lets his legs fall open in a loose, manspreading position. Hands laced behind his head, John tilts back and pushes his feet backward until his spread thighs are parallel to the floor. 

He looks up to gauge Sherlock’s reaction, catches the hard bob of his throat as he swallows, and smirks. 

“Come here,” he commands, tone hard and brokering no room for argument. Sherlock hurries forward, breath quickening when he halts between John’s planted feet. His eyes flicker over John’s combat boots, up to his open legs, linger on his groin and finally shift higher, to his face. He looks dazed, barely in control, and John sighs out a low groan. 

He wants to tear him apart, leave Sherlock looking wrecked and irreversibly altered. 

“Closer,” he says in a whisper, voice strained, and Sherlock shifts between his spread legs until the chair keeps him from coming any nearer. With his arms still pulled back by his shirt, Sherlock peeks down at John expectantly. It’s the quietest he has ever been, and John has to bite his lip to keep from spilling a stream of reverence. 

Instead, he reaches out and settles his hands on Sherlock’s waist. The contact inspires a shivery gasp, and Sherlock jolts forward, into the touch. John doesn’t scold him, tugging instead, his grip sliding down to the backs of Sherlock’s thighs. With relentless pressure, he guides him to lift his knees one at a time and settle on John’s spread legs. John tenses his muscles to support Sherlock’s weight, and Sherlock moans at the slight bounce against his arse. John grins and tugs him forward, settling him on his thighs, unable to resist stroking his palms over the shivering skin of his bare waist. 

Leaning his head back, John murmurs, “Open your eyes, soldier.” Sherlock’s eyes fly open instantly, and he gazes down at John with a starved look, panting quietly with his mouth open. John’s grin widens, and he lifts his head to nudge Sherlock’s jaw with his nose. Sherlock’s lashes flutter, and John mouths along his skin before using his teeth to grip Sherlock’s chin and tug his face down gently. Sherlock comes willingly, eagerly, his eyes drifting closed as their mouths meet. 

John nips Sherlock’s upper lip, sucks it into his mouth and flicks his tongue inside, tasting smooth, slick flesh. The motion makes Sherlock gasp and moan, his hips kicking forward, dragging against John’s long-neglected erection. An involuntary sound escapes John’s throat, and he grabs blindly for Sherlock’s waist. He holds him firmly in place, stopping the desperate little rolls of his hips and kissing him languidly. 

Sherlock’s tongue flickers against his, seeking contact and friction, a needy growl vibrating from his mouth to John’s when John keeps the kiss slow, gentle, achingly tender. The muscles in Sherlock’s glutes flex against John’s thighs as he tries to squirm, trapped by his shirt and John’s unrelenting grip.

“Hold still,” he commands, breaking the kiss to look Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock scowls down at him and tries to shift his hips forward, but John digs his fingers hard into the pale skin of his waist, pressing bruises into the flesh. “Are you disobeying a direct order from a superior officer?” Sherlock groans, and John growls in response, tilting forward to drag his teeth over Sherlock’s chest. _“Answer me,_ Private.”

Sherlock’s reply emerges between clenched teeth, a terse little hiss of, “No, Captain Watson.”

“Excellent.” John tilts his head, nose drifting over Sherlock’s skin. “I won’t tolerate insubordination, soldier. Are we clear?”

“Yessir, crystal clear.” Sherlock’s peevish reply breaks off into a vocal gasp when John’s tongue flicks over a nipple, making Sherlock’s entire body twitch with the unanticipated contact. John feels Sherlock melt beneath him, little shivers dancing over his skin, his body sagging forward as John closes his mouth over the erect flesh and sucks. He swirls his tongue, luxuriates in Sherlock’s rising moans, and nips to make him jump. Before the tension dissipates, he moves to the other nipple, repeating the worship until Sherlock is panting above him.

John raises his eyes to see Sherlock’s head tilted back, his brow furrowed and mouth open around his loud, fast sigh. Smirking, John latches his mouth on the skin between reddened nipples, growling deep in his throat as he sucks and sucks, imagining the destruction of delicate blood vessels beneath the suction of his lips. 

Leaning back to admire his work, John skates his palms up Sherlock’s chest, fingers tracing over the sharp lines of his collar bones. He lingers there, feeling the rise and fall of Sherlock’s panting before he pushes higher, tangles his hands in sweaty curls, and pulls Sherlock downward. Sherlock’s back bows, curves, and he whines against John’s mouth before John swallows down his exultant sounds. 

The kiss is hard, nothing tender or slow about it this time. John ravages Sherlock’s mouth, bites his lips, sucks his tongue and snarls, claims, demands, and takes ownership. He tugs a handful of curls, makes Sherlock sob and heave against his lips, and steals his breath with another fierce kiss. When he comes up for air, Sherlock is nearly weeping with need, gasping, _“John,_ John, John, _please, John,_ John,” into the shared breath between their mouths. 

John presses a finger to Sherlock’s lips, silencing him. Sherlock watches him with wide, dark eyes, his lips swollen and wet against John’s finger. 

“I want you to suck my cock,” he says, and Sherlock lets out a long, low groan, colour rushing into his face. John pulls in a breath with a hiss, nearly dizzy with the surge of desire that washes over him. “You like that idea, soldier? Do you want my cock in your mouth? Want to taste me on your tongue?” He hooks a finger into the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, halting his eager, enthusiastic nodding. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it, I want it,” Sherlock sobs, sucking frantically at John’s finger. 

“What do you want?”

Sherlock’s response is a growling shout of, “I want to suck your cock, sir,” his nostrils flaring with the force of his exhale and shaking need. 

“Permission granted,” John says, lifting Sherlock off his thighs and setting him between his legs. Sherlock’s eyes are wide and riveted on John’s face before dropping as John’s hands move to his uniform trousers. He plays his fingers over the rough, heavy material, listening to the uneven cadence of Sherlock’s accelerated breathing. 

When he flicks open the first button, Sherlock huffs through his nose, and John pauses. He flicks his eyes up, raises a brow and waits until Sherlock presses his lips together and falls silent. Only then does John open the second button and the last, groaning deep in his chest at the slight release of pressure on his trapped cock. 

“Oh, god,” he sighs, tilting his head back as his eyes close. _“Fuck.”_ John stays still for a moment, listening as Sherlock’s pants shift toward borderline whines, then opens his eyes and pulls the front of his fatigues open. He palms himself through his pants. The fabric clings to his fingers, soaked through from his leaking, throbbing cock, and John hums shakily as his erection twitches and pulses in his hand. 

He looks up at Sherlock and finds his eyes pinned to the front of his fatigues, his tongue trapped between his teeth, eyes wide and unblinking. Watching him, John slowly tugs the band of his pants down, just enough to expose the red, dripping head of his cock. He’s so turned on, even the change in air temperature makes him groan and shiver.

Forcing himself to focus, John drags his thumb over the slit and husks, “Kneel.”

Sherlock drops to his knees so fast that John winces at the sound of them hitting the floor. But Sherlock doesn’t pause, shuffling forward awkwardly over the carpet with his hands still trapped behind him by his shirt. He tilts forward, and John catches him by the chin, holding him in place. Sherlock’s eyes dart up to his face, lips open in preparation of taking John in his mouth.

“Christ,” John whispers, marvelling. “Look at you. You’re beautiful, so eager, so bloody responsive.” Sherlock shivers, and John brushes his thumb over his lip, smearing precum along the soft skin. Eyes fluttering shut, Sherlock moans, and his tongue spreads over the offering, his pleased hum rumbling through his chest. “Goddammit,” John groans, stroking Sherlock’s tongue in slow, teasing movements, his cock dripping liberally where it peeks out from his pants. “I want to keep you. Can I keep you? Fuck, you’re _perfect.”_

A full-body shudder moves through Sherlock’s figure, and he presses into John’s hand with a high, wordless keening noise, his eyes pleading when they flash open. 

“God, yes.” John slips his thumb out of Sherlock’s mouth and slides his hand to the back of his head, crushing soft curls under his palm. “Yeah, come on, suck me, Sherlock.” He tugs, guiding Sherlock forward as he shuffles willingly between John’s legs on his knees. There isn’t an ounce of shame in him, just hunger and need, and he groans at the first brush of his tongue over the tip of John’s cock. “Oh, _god,”_ John whimpers, his head falling back. One hand grips his cock through his pants, holding it steady for Sherlock’s flickering tongue, the other tangled in Sherlock’s hair at his nape. 

Sherlock tries to work his lips down John’s cock, and John gives a little tug at his hair to stop him. 

“Just the tip,” he says, the authoritative tone returning. “Go slow.” Sherlock hums his frustration but complies, swirling his tongue around the head. He laps at the slit, sighing at the taste of John’s precum, closing his lips around the glans, wiggling down to enclose the coronal ridge in his mouth.

John’s hips kick forward without his permission, and he releases Sherlock’s hair to grip the back of the chair, trying to regain control. With the hand on his cock, he uses his thumb to push his pants a little lower, and Sherlock immediately drops his mouth over the exposed bit of shaft. John’s eyes go wide and he jerks, snarling, “Fuck, yes, oh, fuck. My god, Sherlock, your _fucking mouth_ ,” through his teeth. 

He exposes more of his cock, slowly, inches at a time, and Sherlock follows, taking more and more in his mouth with each reveal. The sensation is torture, John clenching his fingers around the side of the chair until his knuckles turn white from the force. The muscles stand out in his arm in hard, ropey lines, and his hips shift in helpless little fits. 

By the time Sherlock’s nose sinks into John’s pubic hair, John feels like he’s been set on fire. Every inch of him burns, blood blazing, his jaw starting to hurt from clenching his teeth. He won’t cum, not yet, not when they’re only just getting started, but Sherlock’s mouth is a fucking blessing, and John can barely remember his own name.

Sherlock’s tongue curls over his shaft, his lips tightening at the base, his throat tensing, and John shakes his head. “God, _Sherlock…”_ he rolls the back of his head against the chair and lifts his hips imperceptibly. Sherlock grunts and chokes before his throat relaxes, and John moves in little thrusts, dragging his cock over the flat of Sherlock’s tongue. “Yeah, fuck. Just like that, oh, Sherlock, I could cum just from this, just from your perfect, beautiful mouth.” He looks down, sees Sherlock’s pink, heart-shaped lips stretched wide by the girth of John’s cock, and growls through his teeth, nearly tumbling over the edge from the sight alone.

Breathing loudly through his clenched jaw, John closes his eyes and tilts his head back again, focusing on not orgasming. It’s not easy, taking all his control and willpower, his focus almost shattering when Sherlock groans in his throat and presses his tongue to the vein running along the underside of John’s cock.

“Oh, fuck, okay, stop, stop,” John gasps, gripping Sherlock’s hair and lifting his mouth off. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ.” Struggling to catch his breath, John slumps in the chair, blinking down at Sherlock, who rests his cheek against John’s thigh and watches him in silence. His lips are swollen and wet, and John drags his fingers through damp curls, shaking his head in wonder. “You’re amazing, a bloody _wonder,”_ he whispers, repeating his earlier words, unable to hold them back.

Sherlock’s eyes go soft and liquid, lids dropping to half-mast, and the flood of emotion that rushes through John threatens to choke him. To save himself from ruin, John clears his throat and pulls the persona of Captain Watson back around him. 

Thumb dragging over Sherlock’s bottom lip, the flesh soft and pliant, he whispers, “I’m going to fuck you.” 

Sherlock’s eyelashes flutter as his eyes widen again, the pupils nearly erasing his irises. “Yes, please, Captain Watson,” he gusts, voice breathy and strained as colour rushes into his face. John brushes the inside of his lip and nods.

“Stand up.” 

Sherlock struggles to rise, and John pulls him up by his bent arms, holding him in place once he is on his feet. He doesn’t wait for Sherlock to find his balance, instead attacking the front of his trousers. Catching the little sound Sherlock makes, John forces himself to slow down. He closes his eyes, takes several deep breaths, and opens them to shoot Sherlock a stern look.

“What are you laughing at, soldier?” 

Sherlock freezes, his eyes round and huge. “Nothing, sir.”

“Damn rights,” John growls, tugging Sherlock’s trousers down to his thighs once he gets them open. “Remember your place.”

The reply is a breathless, _“Yessir.”_

John turns his attention to shoving the trousers down, tapping Sherlock’s legs one at a time to encourage him to step out of them. His socks go after before John hooks his fingers in Sherlock’s pants on either side of his hips and yanks. Sherlock pitches forward, catching himself on John’s legs as John shoves his face into the front of his pants. He inhales, groans, and mouths at the hard jut of Sherlock’s cock through the fabric. Sherlock’s legs shake, and he sways, whining high and loud until John wraps an arm around his hips to hold him in place.

“Desperate, aren’t you, soldier?” he pants, tracing the shape of Sherlock’s erection through his pants. Sherlock stumbles and makes unintelligible noises, arching toward John’s mouth. “You want me to fuck you?” At Sherlock’s sighing, _yes,_ John continues, growling, “Want me deep inside you? Fucking you until you can’t even remember your name? Yeah, I know you do, I know you want it.” 

Sherlock is chanting, _yes, yes, yes, I want it, yes, yes,_ as John lips at the head of his cock. His spit soaks through thin fabric, tasting salty arousal mixed with his saliva. Sherlock rocks into his mouth, desperate for friction, and John takes advantage of his mindless rutting to work his hand into the back of Sherlock’s pants. 

The first brush of his fingertips over Sherlock’s hole makes Sherlock freeze, his stomach pulling taut with surprise. He softens in the next instant, pushing back as John circles his index finger against the ring of muscle. They’ve had so much sex, including the brilliant session in the bathroom that morning, that it’s easy to work Sherlock loose. He’s barely begun to tighten, and John works him open with ease, luxuriating in Sherlock’s moans and sighs, his needy little gasps. His shoulders roll with his hips, hands still trapped, arms no doubt aching from holding the position for so long. 

With two fingers buried inside him, John reaches up and uses his free hand to massage first one arm, then the other, Sherlock groaning with relief as John works the tension from his muscles. Once he feels the tightness slacken, he tugs Sherlock closer and strokes his palms over his nipples, feeling them pebble beneath his touch, his mouth still enthusiastically exploring Sherlock’s cock through the soaked fabric of his pants. 

Once three fingers slide in with ease, Sherlock rutting and squirming between John’s probing hand and his mouth, John noses against the shaft of his erection, finds his prostate, and makes Sherlock howl. When his knees buckle, John closes his legs and catches him before he can hit the ground, leaning forward to nip and suck at Sherlock’s pulse point.

“Baby,” he whispers raggedly against Sherlock’s throat, dragging his tongue over his neck. Captain Watson softens the formidable persona, shifting into a fierce, feral John who aches with a burning need. “Baby, you’re so gorgeous, I can’t wait to fuck you.” Sherlock babbles something garbled and desperate, turning his head to find John’s mouth. John lets him, kisses him with open lips and a wandering tongue, moaning at Sherlock’s lascivious sounds and shivery whimpers. When he finally breaks the kiss, pausing to lap hungrily at Sherlock’s lips, John orders, “I want you to stand up.” 

Sherlock manages to right himself, balancing against John’s leg, and he huffs a little gasp.

“Do you think you can take me without lube?” John asks, and Sherlock nods quickly, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Yessir,” he whispers, peering down at John with a ravenous expression on his flushed face. “Yes, please. I want to. _I can.”_

“Good lad,” John praises, and Sherlock’s lashes flutter. “Now, turn around.” A brief flash of confusion passes over Sherlock’s features before he does as told, spinning on his heel to present his back. 

Reaching out, John grips Sherlock’s bound wrists with one hand and gently guides him back. He pulls until Sherlock bumps into John’s spread legs, and then John tugs until he bends his knees and moves to sit. With his other hand, John grips the base of his cock and lines it up with Sherlock’s hole. There is resistance initially, as Sherlock’s body is slow to relax. John takes his time, rubbing the leaking head over the ridged tissue, drawing small, panting moans from Sherlock, who quivers, his hips shifting slowly. 

As John’s precum spreads over his hole, the muscle slowly softening, slackening, he feels the head of his cock slip inside. With gradual, gentle pressure, he draws Sherlock down into his lap, pushing inside with careful patience. 

The last few inches disappear inside Sherlock with an abrupt slide, and they both gasp out loud as Sherlock’s bare skin meets the rough fabric of John’s fatigues. John has no doubt he’ll have to clean his uniform after this, but it’s worth the risk of showing up for his flight tomorrow with dried cum on his fatigues, cleanliness be damned. 

He holds still, relishing the tight, gripping heat of Sherlock’s body around his cock. The sensation is almost overwhelming after denying himself for so long, and John drifts his palms slowly over Sherlock’s rounded shoulders. The gesture earns him a quiet little moan, and he leans forward to drag his teeth over the sweep of a shoulder blade. Sherlock shivers and turns to nuzzle the top of John’s head, John tilting his chin to catch Sherlock's bottom lip in his teeth. 

“You feel so good,” he whispers, giving his hips a little roll and making Sherlock whimper against his lips. “Amazing. You feel _amazing_ , you gorgeous, perfect creature.” His words earn a violent shiver, and Sherlock kisses him frantically, their mouths smearing together, the angle not quite right but somehow perfect. 

A spike of need rips through John, and he gasps, breaking the kiss as he lifts his hips. Sherlock jolts and nearly tips until John catches his restrained wrists and holds him in place. Sherlock plants his feet on the ground and bends forward, trusting John to keep him tethered. Holding those positions, they begin to move, John with controlled rolls of his hips, Sherlock pressing back and down in time with each thrust. 

“John,” Sherlock husks, his voice hoarse, his neck extended, and eyes closed. _“John…”_

Gripping Sherlock’s wrists with one hand, John sweeps his palm in a slow, devout caress over Sherlock’s curved spine, over the muscles rippling with each lift. A sense of awe arises within him as Sherlock breathes raggedly, his moans rough enough to sound almost guttural. “Mm, yes, baby,” John whispers, cupping the swell of Sherlock’s hip and feeling the heavy shivers under his fingers. “Just like that, just like… _oh, god.”_ Sherlock sits upright, clenching John where he’s sunk deep into hot, tight heat, and John’s eyes squeeze shut at the sheer ecstasy breaking through him. “Sherlock, _Sherlock.”_

Sherlock’s response is a wordless cry, and John slumps back in the chair, pulling Sherlock into his chest. Skin to skin, he wraps his arms tight around Sherlock’s waist, lifts, and hammers his hips upwards. Sherlock cries out and tightens, flexes, then falls loose with a long, heavy groan that sinks into John’s body like a heatwave. Growling, John digs his teeth against Sherlock’s back and sets a hard pace, driving deep and rough with each thrust.

When Sherlock starts to shake, his panting spiralling up into high, breathless moans, John sets him back into his lap. Sherlock melts against his chest, head lolling on John’s shoulder, his eyes unfocused and dazed, cock leaking on his stomach. He’s pliant and willing as John frees his wrists from the silk shirt and tosses it aside. There’s a soft, token protest when John slides out and lifts Sherlock off his lap, but it glides into a wanton groan as John turns Sherlock toward him. Straddling John’s thighs, face to face now, Sherlock tilts forward and buries his face against the side of John’s neck as John pushes steadily back into his shivering body. 

_“Oh,_ John,” he whimpers, panting open-mouthed adoration into John’s sweat-damp skin. 

Hands locked on the curve of Sherlock’s arse, massaging the straining muscles, John moves his hips in slow, unhurried thrusts, rocking Sherlock gently in his lap. Sherlock gasps and sighs, smearing his lips and tongue over John’s throat, up to his jaw, nipping at his earlobe. John hums and tilts his head, noses at Sherlock’s cheek until their mouths meet, kissing with sliding tongues and shared breathing. 

With John keeping them both on edge, the pace draws onward, too slow to do anything but repeat. He feels his climax building, a low, constant flicker, nowhere near an inferno, but persistently burning. Sherlock’s thighs shake with every rocking thrust, his legs rising to wrap around John’s waist and the chair. The shift in posture changes the angle of John’s thrusts, letting him push deeper, and a growl rises, his nails drawing red lines down Sherlock’s back. 

Still clad in his full uniform, combat boots and all, John is flushed and hot, panting with sweat running down his face, over his neck and shoulders. His muscles flex, ripple under his slick skin, straining with the control required to stay slow and steady. Sherlock licks the salt from his skin in slow, lingering drags of his tongue, driving John wild. His thrusts quicken, shifting back into the brutal, hammering pace of before, forcing Sherlock to cling to him with quivering arms and legs. 

As he hurtles toward his orgasm, John manages to find enough focus to wiggle a hand between them, gripping Sherlock and stroking firmly along his twitching cock. 

His teeth fasten on the skin between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, and Sherlock throws his head back. A slurred, ecstatic shout escapes his lips, _“Oh god,_ Captain Watson… oh god, _John!”_ John snarls and worries the skin between his teeth, lathing his tongue over the reddening skin.

“Yes, baby,” he husks, nipping the edge of Sherlock’s jaw. “Cum for me, Sherlock. Cum for me, gorgeous. Let me see you, love. Show me how you come apart.”

The words push Sherlock over the edge. His body goes stiff, then rigid, then taut, and he cums keening. Fingers pushing through John’s damp hair, hands gripping the sides of his skull, Sherlock presses his forehead against John’s and sobs through his climax, spending over John’s hand, his own stomach, up to his own chest. His muscles clench and grip, squeezing John into his orgasm, helpless to do anything but roll his hips in clumsy jerks and ride it out, clinging to Sherlock’s twitching body.

Eyes closed, John lifts his head blindly, noses along Sherlock’s cheek until their mouths meet in a searing kiss, Sherlock whimpering through his aftershocks with John swallowing the sounds down. 

When he forces his eyelids open, Sherlock looks wrecked. His hair in disarray, his lips red and swollen, his face damp and skin salty as he looks down at John. The expression gracing his features is of a man ripped open, vulnerable to his core, and John has no doubt he looks the same, staring back at him. 

Wordlessly, they kiss again, John thrusting through the last dredges of his orgasm, unwilling to end the moment. Sherlock’s tongue twists alongside his own, and John tastes salt, sweat, and the tang of Sherlock’s lips.

It reminds him of the ocean, and John wishes he could drown. Push his head beneath the surface of Sherlock’s waters and remain there, steeped in the very core of the man trembling in his lap. 


End file.
